


To a Speedy Immortality

by as_with_a_sunbeam



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 1798, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, New York City
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 16:29:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10517526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/as_with_a_sunbeam/pseuds/as_with_a_sunbeam
Summary: Sixteen year old Philip Hamilton, frustrated by his father's relentless academic pressure, decides to go to a Democratic Republican meeting. But what was meant to be a little rebellion quickly feels like high treason. The experience proves a powerful glimpse into the cruelty of early republican politics.





	

Philip could hear the harsh, barking cough all the way from the top of the stairs. It sounded like Papa’s cold was worse, he thought. He started down the stairs, frowning at the mathematics assignment in his hand. Papa had told him he needed to finish it in order to go out with Price today. It didn’t look right. Perhaps he should have spent a little more time on it last night.

At the bottom of the stairs, Alex bounded around him towards the dining room and Philip glared in annoyance at his little brother. As he entered the room, he saw Alex hugging Papa tightly. Papa glanced over at him as he patted Alex’s back.

“Good morning, Philip,” Papa greeted. His voice sounded hoarse. His nose was bright red against his pale features. Philip spied a handkerchief in his left hand.

“Morning, Papa,” Philip replied. When Alex had finally scurried to his seat, Philip placed the math assignment before his father and sat down at the table.

The terrible cough came again. Papa held the handkerchief to his mouth, his whole face turning red with the force of the cough. Mama came into the room from the kitchen during the fit, her mouth a tense line as she set a basket of bread rolls on the table. Philip watched her place a hand to Papa’s forehead and frown.

“You should be in bed,” Mama said, her hand carding through Papa’s hair when she was done feeling his temperature.

Papa shook his head, still too winded to respond. He gave a great sneeze, then looked up. “I’m fine, sweetheart. It’s just a cold,” he replied at last. “Besides, I have too much work to do to be in bed all day.”

Mama frowned again.

Papa smiled at her, then turned his attention to Philip’s assignment. Philip watched his father covertly from the corner of his eye as he began to serve himself breakfast. Papa’s eyes scrutinized the paper for several long seconds and Philip saw him shaking his head.

“I know you can do better than this, Pip,” Papa said, sliding the paper back towards him.

Philip shrugged. “I’ll try again when I get home.”

Papa gave him a rueful smile. “You’ll try again this morning.”

“I’m meeting Price this morning,” Philip argued.

“No, you’re working on your mathematics.”

Philip felt his temper flare. “You said I could go if I finished the assignment! I finished it!”

Papa gave him a warning look but kept his voice level. “This is hardly finished. You can go when you’ve completed it to my satisfaction.”

“That’s not fair!” Philip cried. “That’s not what you said!”

“Philip,” Papa began, but whatever he’d been about to say was lost to yet another coughing fit. Concern and a niggle of guilt overtook him as he watched his father struggle to take a breath.

Mama stood from her seat and went around Papa’s chair to rub his back. When the fit came to an end, Papa slowly lowered the handkerchief but kept his eyes closed, with a hand pressed to his forehead. Papa took a deep breath as he glanced over at Mama. “I think perhaps I should go lie down,” he said. With a weak smile, he added, “I don’t know why I argue with you.”

“You think you’d learn eventually,” Mama said teasingly. She sobered as she asked, “Should I call for a doctor?”

Papa shook his head. “No. I’m sure it’s just a bad cold. But with this cough and sore head, I doubt I’d get anything useful done today.”

As Papa walked by, he tapped the math assignment in front of Philip. “You’re using the wrong formula,” Papa told him, clapping him on the shoulder once before leaving the room.

Philip glared down at the paper, ill-humor taking hold of him once more. He had plans today. Well, not exactly plans. He and Price were going to walk around town, finding amusement as they went. Philip hadn’t been allowed free time in ages, and Papa had promised to let him go out. He’d rather gouge his eyes out than read that stupid problem one more time. Looking around, he realized Mama had followed Papa out of the room. He pushed back from the table.

“Where are you going?” Alex asked around a huge bite of bread.

Philip wrinkled his nose in disgust at the half chewed food. “Keep your mouth closed when you’re eating,” he scolded. “I’m going out.”

“You can’t!” Alex exclaimed, his eyes going wide. “Papa said you had to finish your work.”

“I did finish it,” Philip argued. “He didn’t say it had to be right.”

“He just said—.”

“Don’t be such a Goody two-shoes,” Philip interrupted.

Alex bristled. “I am not.”

Philip stuck his tongue out at his little brother, and laughed when his face scrunched up in rage. “And don’t tattle on me to Mama, either,” he added, stuffing the cursed math work into his pocket as he left the dining room.

The city was bustling with activity when Philip stepped outside, grinning at his sudden freedom. He made his way towards Broadway, where he was supposed to meet Price. Sure enough, the other boy was waiting for him on the corner.

“What are we going to do?” Price asked, kicking at a loose stone.

Philip shrugged. “I don’t care. As long as it’s not Greek grammar or algebra.”

Price laughed and nodded his agreement.

They walked along the street, stopping occasionally at different street vendors hocking exotic goods. Philip held on to his pocket money to eat at a nearby tavern with some of the other boys from school around noon. They whiled away several hours there, eating and having long, serious discussions about which girls in their social circle they might be convinced to kiss. Well into the afternoon, Philip and Price again emerged onto Broadway and began to aimlessly ramble once more.

“I’m bored,” Price whined, kicking at another stone as they passed by the same street vendors as this morning. “I wish there was a show to see or something.”

A few more feet down the street, a man handing out broadsides shoved a loose sheet into Philip’s hand.

“What is it?” Price asked excitedly, craning his neck to try to read over Philip’s shoulder.

Philip grinned. A meeting of the Democratic Republicans was happening nearby. Papa would likely hear about it if Philip went. He’d be furious. Well, it would serve him right for keeping Philip locked up like a prisoner, slaving away over useless math day in and day out.

“A political meeting?” Price frowned.

“Come on, it’ll be a laugh,” Philip pressed.

Price shrugged. “Yeah, all right,” he agreed at last. “Not like there’s anything else to do.”

And so they set off in the direction of the meeting. When they arrived at the correct address, Philip walked in proudly and helped himself to a glass of champagne off a tray held by a servant. Price grabbed a glass as well. They grinned at each other as they each took a sip. Groups of men were chattering excitedly, raucous laughter filling the room. This was much more fun than his father’s deathly boring political dinners, he thought. Perhaps he should become a Democratic Republican.

Moments later, a stout man with thinning hair clambered up onto a table and raised his glass for a toast. The room turned their attention to him, everyone holding up their glass in anticipation. Philip joined them as well, still grinning.

“A toast, my friends, to our dear General Hamilton,” the man called.

Philip’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at hearing his father’s name. The crowd around them booed and hissed. The general hostility towards his father made him feel suddenly uncomfortable.

“Now, now,” the man cried over the din, a predatory smirk on his lips. “I have it on good authority that General Hamilton is ill in bed today.”

Philip wondered briefly how the pudgy little man knew that.

“To General Hamilton, may God grant him a speedy immortality!”

“Hear, hear,” a voice in the crowd seconded. The men all whooped with approval as they drank the toast.

The glass in Philip’s hand suddenly felt heavy as a boulder. His little rebellion now felt like high treason. Did these men really want  his papa to die?

Conversations broke out around the room. Men calling his papa a monarchist and a thief and a scoundrel. All this they said with smiles and laughter, drinking merrily.

Price, seeming to sense his unease, motioned for them to leave.

“Bit boring, huh?” Price asked, attempting nonchalance as they stepped outside. “Why don’t we go back to the tavern?”

Philip shook his head, his chest feeling curiously tight. The cruelty of those men had made an indelible impression on him, and he didn’t think it likely that his appetite for a good time would return tonight. “You go ahead,” he said. “I should probably get home. I’m already in trouble.”

He started off towards home alone, his mind churning. It’s not as if he hadn’t heard that politics could be vicious. He’d seen nasty newspaper articles and heard the cruel taunts about his father. But the scene in that room was something new, a hatred both gleeful and vitriolic, and all together disturbing.

By the time he made his way back to his house, the sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows down the street. Philip pushed the door open and stepped inside. One of the servants had lit the lamps, but there was no movement in any of the downstairs rooms. It was much too early for everyone to be in bed. Mama must have demanded quiet because of Papa’s cold.

He tip-toed up the stairs, watchful for Alex who was probably lying in wait to tattle on him. When he got to the top of the stairs, he heard coughing coming from all the way down the hall. He made his way towards his parent’s room.

He knocked twice and waited.

Mama cracked open the door a moment later and fixed him with a hard stare. “You are in such trouble, young man,” she whispered. “Just you wait until I tell your father you went out after he explicitly told you to finish your work.”

He hung his head for a moment, ashamed, and a little annoyed. He knew Alex would tattle. Then he screwed up his courage and met Mama’s eyes once more. “Can I see Papa?”

Mama’s expression hardened further. “He’s sick, Philip. Whatever it is can wait. The last thing he needs right now is to fight with you about algebra.”

“I don’t want…I just…” he trailed off, not sure himself what he wanted. “I just want to see Papa for a few minutes.”

Mama raised a brow at him. He widened his eyes in a silent plea and a tacit promise of good behavior. Mama sighed and opened to door a little wider, motioning him in. “A few minutes,” she echoed sternly.

Philip nodded vigorously and slipped by as soon as she opened the door all the way.

“I’m going to get you some more tea,” Mama said to Papa, stepping out of the room and leaving Philip alone with his father. The door closed behind her with a soft click.

Papa was propped up on several pillows. His face was now as stark white as the bed sheets. He was coughing again, the sound slightly muffled by the handkerchief  he held to his mouth. The cough still sounded deep and painful.

When the fit passed, Papa looked up at him with glassy eyes, but he smiled weakly. “What do you need, Pip?” His voice was so hoarse it was nearly unrecognizable.

Philip realized suddenly he had no idea what he wanted to say. He’d had a gnawing, aching feeling in his stomach ever since being in that room with men who had blithely toasted his father’s death. With mortification, he felt moisture pricking at his eyes.

“Philip?” Papa pressed, his pale brow furrowing with concern.

Philip hesitated. Considering for a moment, he toed off his shoes and did something he had not done for over a decade—he crawled into bed beside his papa. He hugged him tight, pillowing his face against his nightshirt. Papa’s arm wrapped around him, hugging him even closer. Moisture leaked out of his eyes and nose, leaving a wet spot against Papa’s chest. Papa didn’t comment on it, nor did he ask Philip to explain his strange behavior. Papa simply held him tight and let him have his cry.

“I love you,” Philip managed finally.

“I love you, too, Pip,” Papa cooed comfortingly. He felt Papa’s lips press against the top of his head in a kiss.

How could people be so cruel to this man who Philip loved so much? Whatever Papa had done, he didn’t deserve to be talked about so by those horrible men. He felt hatred rise up within him, real hatred for the whole lot of them, from Thomas Jefferson on down. There, in his parent’s bed, hugging his papa tight, he vowed to himself that he would never again allow another man to speak about his papa like that in his presence.

**Author's Note:**

> John Church Hamilton cited this toast as a favorite among Jefferson, Madison and other DRs. It was meant to be a cruel jab at Hamilton's frequent ill-health. The fact that his son knew about it made me think about what it would have felt like to hear someone drink a toast to your parent's death. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Feedback very much appreciated, as always!


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